Gun Work

At the same time, Barney hated himself for re-evaluating his old buddy Carl. There is a nasty section of the human heart: everyone has it, some people flaunt it, and it is never flattering. The I-told-you-so impulse. That was what Barney was feeling now, but vaguely, not wishing to confront it head-on. Carl had gotten legitimate. Hooked up with Erica, who by all reports was splendid. Then blundered into a zone of hostiles like a tyro and gotten blindsided, worse than a damned tourist. Carl had forgotten or ignored the rules of engagement. He had exposed his throat to a sharpened world.

Never, thought Barney. Never would I get foxed like that.

And at the same time as that same-time, Barney felt powerful and enabled. The weaknesses of guys like Carl permitted guys like Barney to exist and persevere. Barney could fix things. Lots of people can’t fix a leaky faucet. Even more people had no idea how their automobile worked; it’s just a magic box, you get inside and it goes. Barney could strip an engine or put a drop of solder into an iPod and make the magic thing go again.

The tough part, really, was surfing the waves of emotional garbage people brought to their problems as extra baggage, to prove how human and normal they were. You were supposed to sympathize and coddle. None of which had anything to do with fixing the problem.

So it came as a surprise when Carl whipped out a dirty kerchief and displayed a woman’s severed finger with an engagement ring on it. Supposedly the diamond was non-conflict.

“I’ve looked at this a thousand times,” he said, not meaning the ring. “I don’t have to. It’s Erica’s.” His expression had the dull infinity focus of someone who has been overloaded with too much truth.

“The cut looks three days old,” said Barney. You could tell from the way the flesh desiccated. Lividity. Whether the amputation was rough or precise. A dozen details Barney thought he could spare Carl just now.

Carl nodded. Yep, three days. Most abductions at this price took about a week to play out.

“What else did they give you?”

Carl dug out a cellphone. “I’m supposed to call them if things screw up. Otherwise I’m supposed to wait for this thing to ring.”

Barney examined the phone. Scratch marks on the case where it had been pried open and customized — probably to route through several other countries to make it trace-proof.

“How much American cash do you have?”

“You mean besides the —?” Carl’s face went cheesy at almost blurting out big money while surrounded by hungry foreigners. He lowered his voice, playing spy. “A couple thousand.”

Barney held out his hand under the table and Carl passed a wad of damp currency. “Give me your hotel room key. Tell the hotel you lost it. Be ready to call them at six o’clock and say you just want to get it over with. Then find a car agency and rent a car that has a global positioning system.”

“What are you going to do?”

Barney pocketed the money as absentmindedly as you’d tuck a small receipt. “Go shopping.”

As an anonymous outsider, it was comparatively easy for Barney to score the things he wanted: three cheap cellphones, gray-market night vision binoculars, a ex-military Colt 1911-A chambered for modern .45 caliber rounds. But he was carrying more than that. He felt the crush of obligation on his shoulders, trying to weary him prematurely. He felt depressed about becoming the designated tough guy, and therefore devaluing Carl in his mind because Carl was reluctant to soldier up. At least Carl fit into the universe; all Barney had to fall back upon was rusty old myths about the nobility and honor of samurai, or ronin, or paladins — those stiff-lipped protectors who always wound up dead when the status was returned to quo.

In another way, it wasn’t Carl’s perceived weakness so much as Erica’s influence. Erica, the yet-unseen, had changed Carl. Perceived as feminine and thus victim fodder, she was the prime target. Carl was responding as protector — a damnable predictability. If the kidnappers had grabbed Carl and pushed Erica through this wringer, things might have sorted out differently.

Barney wondered about Erica while he field-stripped and cleaned the .45. The sidearm was narrow and heavy, its parts scuffed with wear and burnished by time, but as a functional assembly of parts it was nearly indestructible. You could hammer nails with it, dunk it in fresh concrete, and it would still fire reliably. Not subtle, it would kick like a piston. It was like a longdistance mace, designed for one to fire at full arm extension, single-handedly, and knock down enemies out of choking range. The two-handed grip amateurs had learned from the movies was strictly boutique, a precious formality that made you seem more impressive on the shooting range. It was useful for target shooters; less practical in combat. Felt recoil was only a downside if you let it disrupt your aim.